


you got me going insane; and I can't get enough

by charonismyfriend



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Compliant, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Spies & Secret Agents, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:48:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26567578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charonismyfriend/pseuds/charonismyfriend
Summary: Modern!AU. Stockholm. Another U.N.C.L.E. agent has gone missing and the trio is tasked with tracking her down. They might be efficient in their work but their personal lives are one huge disaster. Will a hedonist who can’t say a word of truth, a walking ball of anger issues who can’t stand a lie and an insomniac driver with family issues find a peace of mind and, also, a missing agent?Of course they will. But at what cost?____All events are the same except there’re happening circa 2010-2020.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 22
Kudos: 69





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> This work is told via third-person POV but the focus changes every chapter from Napoleon to Illya and so on. 
> 
> The title is from Britney Spears song "Break the Ice".
> 
> Characters are written as close to canon as possible, the only difference in events is that they are set in 21st century. Less homophobia and more gadgets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third-person POV of Napoleon's perspective.

_Charter plane. Ten thousand meters above the surface of the North Sea. Afternoon._

The sound of plane turbines was slightly hard on the ears, making Napoleon scrunch his face for a second. He glimpsed out of the illuminator, noting the dark water surface of below the clouds and pulled down the blinds in the hopes that it would help with the noise. 

Just as he turned his glance towards the interior of the plane, Waverly sat down beside him with a small folder in his hands, which wasn’t a good sign. The less information they get before the mission the more they have to improvise and/or possibly get into trouble and get hurt in the process. 

Napoleon sighed and seeked moral support and understanding from Gaby and Ilya who were sitting in the opposite seats. However, he wasn’t met with the returning stares, as Gaby was still sleepy and leaning her head on Illya’s shoulder and Kuryakin himself was studying the sea below them, not opting for shutting off the outside world as Napoleon did.

“Right, this is what we’re dealing with,” Waverly opened the folder and pulled out a photo of a woman in MI5 uniform. “This is Helena Pierce, an U.N.C.L.E. operative. She was sent to Stockholm as an undercover agent four months ago to investigate an IT company called Angrboda LLC. She was posing as a software engineer intern. We believe that Angrboda LLC runs an underground operation, creating highly professional software that can create extremely believable deep-fake materials. I believe you’re familiar with this idea, agents?”

Illya furrowed his brows.

“Yes. This is dangerous technology.”

“You’re quite right, Kuryakin. In mediocre hands it can ruin relationships,” he paused, emphasizing his next words. “In ambitious hands it can create international conflicts and start world wars.”

The last statement combined with the following silence sent a chill down Napoleon’s spine and by the looks on Illya and Gaby's faces they experienced it as well. No matter how many times they were given missions of global importance, it never ceases to amaze them what people can do in the pursuit of world domination. 

“So what happened to Helena Pierce?”

“Ah, yes, Solo, back on track. A month ago Helena didn’t come in contact with the head office at the regulated time. Another agent, who is currently in Stockholm, was given a task of checking in on her but he could not find her. And because we cannot risk compromising this agent’s whereabouts, we are sending you three to find Helena.”

Waverly spread a map on the table and produced a series of photos with buildings on them. One was clearly a suburban area multiflat complex, the other was the office building with “Angrboda LLC” purple neon logo and a couple of others showed a man in glasses in random places such as a shopping mall or the street.

“This evening, at 2300 Stockholm time, you two gentlemen will study Ms. Pierce's apartment. We’re interested in anything concerning her work and the circumstances of her disappearance. Our second mission is for you, agent Teller. You are tasked with getting to know Erik Nilsson, a colleague of Ms. Pierce. You need to get his trust so that you can inconspicuously question him about Helena. Does everyone understand their task for today?”

Three heads nodded simultaneously. 

“Tomorrow morning, at 0800 sharp you will report the results and get a new briefing. For now you can relax and anticipate your arrival at the capital city of Sweden,” Waverly smiled, stood up, straightening his jacket, and left the trio to their own devices, disappearing behind the captain's cabin door. 

Napoleon picked the photo of the apartment complex. Straight lines, dull brown colours and no extra decorations - Nordic architecture at its finest. On the back of the photograph there was an address and the apartment number with brief instructions on how to navigate the second floor of the complex. 

Gaby absentmindedly studied the map, quietly pronouncing the Swedish names of suburban areas and regions. Ilya spared one glance at the map, probably already remembering everything he needed to know and tasked himself with picking the fruit from the fruit basket standing on the table. After finally choosing a satsuma, he peeled it in quick motions, split it in two halves and tapped Gaby’s shoulder with one of them. 

A simple gesture. Caring for someone, thinking of someone and casually sharing food. Napoleon noticed every single detail - couldn’t not to; not because he wanted to be intrusive but because noticing details is what he did for a living - and reminded himself that he took a step back. Ilya and Gaby were happy, they found a safe haven in each other with no place left for Napoleon. Step back. No intrusion. Ilya made it very clear that he’s not interested. Broad palm on Napoleon’s chest in the small house back in New York, pushing him away. _Step back._ Cold stare of blue eyes in return for the smile that Napoleon hoped was inviting and just cocky enough to be flirting and not haughty. Neutral mask on his face despite his insides twisting into knots to the point of nausea. 

_Step. Back._

***

Stockholm met them with heavy grey clouds that promised pouring rain any second but twirling in such a way so that light patches of the sky made you believe that maybe, just maybe, the rain won’t start for another couple of minutes. As the four of them went down the stairs from the plane, a black Volvo - a new S90, Napoleon remembered - drove up to them. A spacious sedan provided space for all the agents, however, Ilya and Napoleon’s muscle mass squished poor Gaby in the middle of the backseat. Waverly, of course, took a front passenger’s seat.

Solo expected their trip to be longer, but the car pulled to a stop at the unremarkable street full of colourful one-story houses in under ten minutes. Upon remembering the photos presented to them previously Napoleon deduced they were in Bromma - sleeping quarters on the east of Stockholm - about two streets away from Helena Pierce’s apartment. 

“I believe this is where we part ways for now, agents. A yellow house to your right is where you will be based for the duration of this mission. Your belongings have already been delivered. Don’t forget, 0800 tomorrow morning.”

The black Volvo disappeared around the corner as Napoleon opened the house door with the key Waverly gave him. Even though the house looked small on the outside, the interior landscape of the building fit three cozy bedrooms and a bathroom from the main hall and at the end of said hall a living room fused with the kitchen peaked through. A window and a glass door at the far end of the house presented a nice-looking backyard, protected from neighbour's eyes by a high stone fence. The suitcases with the agents’ belongings were, indeed, placed in the hallway. 

Napoleon grabbed his suitcase and pushed the first of two doors to his right. Judging by the footsteps, Gaby picked the second door to the right and Illya first checked the two doors on the left side of the hallway - as he always did in their safe houses - and then dropped his suitcase somewhere in the opposite room from Napoleon. 

Solo really wasn’t looking for the night spying alone with Illya. It’s harder to take a step back when you tend to end up squished next to each other in some random alleyway or under the bed of your target when they decide to unexpectedly come home early. Napoleon tightened his jaw and headed for the shower before his colleagues managed to slip their way into the bathroom.

***  
_New York. Safe house. Three months ago._

It was easy to pull out a smug grin when he got rejected. After all, he was a professional at making his exterior nothing like his interior. A cocky smile, a glint in his eyes and a slight tilt to his head to make it look like Napoleon expected to be pushed away. _He wasn’t._ The cheerful sound of his voice made it look like a bad-timed joke. _It wasn’t._

“God, Peril, I thought after a year of working together you’d stop being so uptight.” 

_Cover the tracks._

“I’m not uptight. I don’t like your advances towards me.”

Napoleon sighed, louder than he needed to show that he was tired with Illya not getting in on the fun. _Not because he needed to elevate the pressure building up inside of him._ “It was a joke.” 

“I don’t like your jokes,” whether Illya intended it or not, his voice sounded cruel, cutting right through Napoleon’s mask, going straight to his sense of pride. 

Napoleon was stunned by anger Illya was giving him. He miscalculated and made his work partner mad, when the effect he was going for was quite the opposite. The moment to continue the conversation was lost and Illya shut off any possibility of continuation by going out of his room. 

Napoleon needed to get out. Thankfully, he knew New York better than any other city. It was the place he was born and the place he went to between the missions from the CIA. New York was perfectly suitable when you wanted to get lost. 

The front door shut behind him, snapping him out of his misery. Light breeze picking up the ends of his scarf and coat reminded him that the world was bigger than their safe house. The world was bigger than the room Illya shoved Napoleon away from him. Bigger than Illya’s broad shoulders and tall figure. But damn, it didn’t feel this way.

_Down the street toward the corner shop._

But he didn’t base his advances on nothing. 

_Past the corner shop, then to the right._

Not with the way Illya was looking at him when he thought Napoleon couldn’t see. 

_Wait for the green light, cross the street._

Not with the way Illya smiled more, feeling a breath of freedom, while working at U.N.C.L.E. 

_Second entrance to the park, because the first had too many tourists pouring in._

He felt their trust building up stronger with every mission they finished, with every day spent in the safe houses across the world, with every wound cleaned, teasingly berating each other but also caring if the antibacterial solution stung too much on the fresh cut. Little inside jokes, playful fighting, with Gaby keeping the score or sometimes joining in. Challenging each other on who could disassemble the gun first, with Illya usually finishing first if Napoleon didn’t manage to steal the piece from him. 

_Bench under the ash tree overlooking a pond._

No, he didn’t base his advances on nothing. And he knew the difference between a friendly smirk and a flirtatious one. Gaby was his friend. Illya was in love with him. He knew it. 

Or he thought he did, until the moment Illya outright rejected him. 

Napoleon refused to believe that it was him smitten with Illya that blinded him and made him incompetent at seeing the lack of reciprocation. He refused to be outsmarted by another agent in this fight. Even if they weren’t technically on the battlefield.

No. Illya was wrong. It was all a joke and he didn’t understand it. And from now on Napoleon would tease him about not understanding it.

After an hour of breathing exercises and watching the ducks swim across the pond, he decided to head back, ready to pull Illya’s leg at any given opportunity. Late evening’s snack in the form of leftover doughnuts from the corner shop created an excuse for him going out. 

He was ready to face Illya, mentally and physically. Bag of doughnuts as a shield and a confident smile as a sword, he opened the door of their safe house and strode in, only to find his two colleagues peacefully sleeping on the living room couch. Gaby was lying on top of Illya, snoring no louder than a whisper and Illya was lying perfectly still and quiet. 

His shield lowered and the smile faded. There was no one to fight, except himself.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third-person POV of Illya's perspective.

_Stockholm, Bromma. Safe house. Late evening._

Black turtleneck, brown jacket, grey pants, gloves and a flat cap – his everyday mission gear – Illya was ready to go. He was about to take the gun with him but decided against it. It’s safer not to have a weapon when you pretend to have a midnight stroll through the city. 

Illya proceeded into the hallway, fully expecting Solo to be there but he wasn’t present. For a second he considered leaving without him and rolled his eyes when Napoleon stepped out of his room, looking more ready for a fashion show than for work. Kuryakin wanted to be mad at him but unfortunately there wasn't anything to pick upon and criticize. Napoleon’s black turtleneck was almost the same one Illya wore. His black cotton jacket had all the necessary pockets to fit the lock-picking tools and any other devices. Black trousers fit Napoleon great and didn’t produce much noise which was crucial for breaking and entering. 

His outfit was stylish enough for a regular midnight tourist and efficient enough for a spy and yet it enraged Illya because it screamed Napoleon Solo. Maybe because said man was currently wearing it with a smug expression on his face. Illya unconsciously balled one hand into a fist at the sight of it. 

In order not to pick a fight with Napoleon Illya decided to stay silent, turning away and opening the door. It was going to be a long night.

“We split and then meet near Helena’s house. Make sure no one is following you”

Without waiting for Napoleon’s answer Illya headed down the street, leaning towards the shadows away from the streetlights. He made a few turns, purposefully walking in circles and analysing every car driving past him. There weren’t any people on the street and houses were silent and gloomy. He didn’t want to call the quiet streets eerie, because it was the same at any outskirts of most European cities at night. But the fact that they were on the mission of finding a missing agent ranked this empty street and dark houses pretty high on the creepy scale. 

Illya turned to the street Helena’s apartment was located on and noted that Napoleon wasn’t there yet, meaning that he was also covering his tracks, like a proper agent. The apartment complex was mostly dark, with only one or two windows looking at them with bright light. On the opposite side of the street was a park, separated from them by two pairs of the tram tracks. 

Familiar approaching steps told him Solo made his way here as well. 

As Illya finished studying their surroundings, Napoleon opened the front door and motioned for Illya to go in first, posing as a gallant gentleman. Illya spared him a quick strenuous smile and proceeded to go inside. 

Right as they were about to ascend up the stairs to the second floor, they heard footsteps of a person coming down. Napoleon was a millisecond quicker in his thinking, grabbing Illya’s hand and pushing him into the door that led to the adjusting hallway on the first floor. He pressed his body into Illya, pinning him to the wall as he looked through the small door window, checking if the person left or not. 

Illya put all of his efforts not to shove Napoleon away. The situation was worsened by the fact that Solo _still_ held his hand, probably forgetting to let go in the spur of the moment. Napoleon’s cologne - who the hell wears _cologne_ on a mission; oh, right, Napoleon Solo - hit his nostrils. 

_Don’t give in_ , Illya reminded himself. _This is all an act._ There is nothing trustworthy about Solo. The way he talks, the way he moves. Lies he feeds the victims of his charm. Flirtatious gestures he makes, during the missions and outside of them, simply _because he can_. Solo is a trap. He’s an actor. He’s a predator, always ready to catch an unsuspecting prey and Illya refuses to fall victim to his appeal. 

It wasn’t like Napoleon planned for another person to appear in the apartment complex, it was just a coincidence that they had to deal with. Nothing out of the ordinary. _And yet._

Napoleon finally stepped back and motioned for Illya to follow him with his head. Kuryakin exhaled, not even realising he was holding his breath. 

***

Helena Pierce’s apartment was pristinely well-organized, not an object out of place. Even though they didn’t dare to turn on the main lights, opting to use the flashlights, it was obvious the house was taken care of. 

“No signs of struggle. She wasn’t taken from her flat,” Illya noted, taking a few steps inside. 

They investigated the state of the living room, the kitchen, and the bathroom separately and met each other near the bedroom door. Napoleon pushed down the handle and peaked inside, promptly stepping in. 

“There was a cup in the sink. Seems like she expected to come back from work,” said Solo, opening drawers of various closets. 

Illya scanned the room with his flashlight, noticing the layer of dust and the state of the plants on the windowsill, it did look like the owner was missing for a month. 

“Peril”

Kuryakin turned and found Solo near the bookcase. 

“Look at this”

Napoleon handed him a copy of a Bible with one page’s corner being folded inside. Upon opening it he found a few numbers scribbled with a pencil on the margins. 

“Is it…”

“It is,” confirmed Napoleon.

What they saw was the code U.N.C.L.E. agents were taught. It was simple enough to make nothing of it for the outside viewer but the specific way it was written, two pairs of four symbol combinations containing letters and numbers, told any other agent that it was a message. Unfortunately, they couldn’t decipher it on the spot since they didn’t have a key for this code but they sure could take it with them and show Waverly.

Illya put the Bible into the inside pocket of his jacket. 

There wasn’t much else to inspect since they studied the whole apartment already. Solo was somewhat eager to get out of there sooner rather than later and Illya eventually noticed why.

“What is that?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your chest pocket. It was smaller when we entered. What is that?”

Napoleon rolled his eyes and begrudgingly undid the zipper, pulling out a large pendant.

“You stole from the U.N.C.L.E. agent?” 

“I stole from the woman who might not be alive. The dead don’t need sapphire pendants. I, however, do.”

Illya shaked his head disapprovingly. “You don’t know that she’s dead.”

“Then it would be a nice present for her when we find her,” Napoleon titled his head and by the sound of his voice Illya deduced that he was smiling. 

_Impossible to talk to. Unbearable to work with. Insufferable to like._

Illya didn’t say anything as he shoved past him towards the exit, choosing to stay silent rather than fight in the dead woman’s apartment. Not dead! Goddamned Napoleon. 

***

_New York. Safe house. Three months ago._

It was a long day of running and chasing and almost dying. Illya was held upright mostly by adrenaline and the need to protect his fellow colleagues; Napoleon had a bullet leaving a nasty scratch on his arm and Gaby was exhausted after being behind the wheel for the whole day, manoeuvring through car-filled streets of New York.

By the time they got back to their safe house all they wanted was peace and quiet. Illya made sure that Gaby was okay and then went in to check on Napoleon who had just started peeling off the layers of his clothes to get to the wound on his shoulder. 

“Let me help”

At first he didn’t spare any thought to his actions but by the time he got to bare skin he felt an intense gaze on himself that made him look up and meet it upfront. Solo smiled and averted his gaze.

“Need to wash it,” dropped Illya into the air. Not _“I need to wash it”_ or _“You need to wash it”_. It was a fact that needed to be done, regardless of who would do it. 

Napoleon handed him a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

“Didn’t think you’d see me naked so soon, Peril. Although I imagined it under different circumstances.” 

Illya shot a glance directly at Napoleon’s eyes, not necessarily a dangerous one, but mostly curious as to what Solo was suggesting. Tiredness prevented him from having a defence in his eyes and demeanor. 

“Which different circumstances?”

Napoleon’s smile grew wider, as if this was exactly what he wanted Illya to say. 

_A mousetrap spring pulled tight._

“A bottle of wine, a nice hotel bed”

Illya tightened his jaws and the gauge on Napoleon’s shoulder, saying nothing. He didn’t have the energy for the sarcastic comeback and this conversation was draining him. 

“You, probably also naked.”

_Snap! The spring collapsed, bringing the metal rod onto his head._

Illya felt the urge to distance himself from Napoleon Solo, and he did so physically, putting a palm on Solo’s chest. 

“Another word and I will punch you in your face”

Napoleon was taken aback for a second, only to retaliate with another attack.

“God, Peril, I thought after a year of working together you’d stop being so uptight”

_It was an act._

“I’m not uptight. I don’t like your advances towards me.”

Napoleon sighed, visibly annoyed with him. “It was a joke.”

Despite what people believed, Illya Kuruakin did have a heart. And at that moment it was pierced through by about twenty glass shards, making him wince.

“I don’t like your jokes,” said Illya, putting as much venom into his voice as he could manage. _I don’t like your jokes. I don’t want to give in to your charm just because you’re handsome. I don’t want to be a bodycount in your collection. I’m not a toy for you to play and get bored with the next day. Men like you don’t like men like me, they use them and leave with an empty bed and a broken heart._

He needed more space because Napoleon’s room wasn’t big enough. It was suffocating. Solo’s cologne seeped into him, just as the man himself did. Illya needed to get out. So he went into the kitchen and signed with relief when Napoleon later left the house altogether. 

His hands kept shaking violently even when Gaby joined him in the kitchen, putting her palm onto his, and then hugged him from behind.

“Are you alright? You sounded angry”

“It’s nothing”

“Come on”

Gaby took his hand and pulled him towards the couch, turning on the TV at the same time. Illya mostly fell down, mentally and physically tired, and Gaby lay down on top of him. He liked to feel the weight of another person because it grounded him. She liked being held because it made her feel protected from the whole world. 

They were two people who found a safe place in each other. No romantic attraction, no desire to be intimate. They did kiss - once, in Istanbul - and quickly realised it was nothing what they expected. And since then they became friends.

Illya woke up when Solo returned but he didn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t confront Napoleon, he was too overworked for that. Tomorrow he will build a wall and throw punching remarks. Tomorrow he will try to maintain his composure. But today he felt like he lost.

Illya didn’t want to fall victim to Napoleon Solo’s charms. But damn, he was getting close to giving in.

***

_Stockholm. Safe house. 08:00._

“Good morning, agents. Hope you’ve slept well. We have a lot of work to do. But first, I want to hear the report of your tasks from yesterday. Agent Teller?”

“Well, I have good news and bad news”

“Please, enlighten us,” said Waverly, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“I know where we can casually come in contact with Erik Nilsson. However, this is not within my skill set, unfortunately.” 

Three pairs of eyes looked at her questionably. 

“Gay club. He went there yesterday and was quite busy kissing men on the dancefloor”

“Yes, this is rather unfortunate,” Waverly sipped boiling hot liquid. “Gentlemen?”

“We found this,” Illya pulled out a Bible and a sheet of paper with inscriptions made in his chaotic handwriting. “There was a code left, presumably by Helena. I deciphered it and this is what I got,” he put the Bible down and started reading from the notes he made. “‘Software developed. Danger. Beware Martin Nordström.’ Judging from the state of her apartment, she left for work one day and didn’t come back. But she also clearly knew they were suspecting her”

“Martin Nordström,” Napoleon furrowed his brows, pulling the name from his memory. “It’s the CEO of Angrboda LLC, right?”

“Yes. And also, agent Solo, he is the person you’re going to be entertaining today.”

Napoleon nodded, pursing his lips. 

“The new information about Erik is, of course, changing our plans. Originally, agent Teller, you were supposed to gain his trust while agent Kuryakin was going to be tasked with getting to know Helena Pierce’s neighbours. Maybe they know something. Now, I believe, we’ll switch your missions.”

“You can’t possibly send Illya to seduce a target,” Napoleon’s voice sounded louder than he intended, making everyone turn to look at him. 

“Why not?” Illya straightened his back and crossed his arms, already getting into defence mode.

“With all due respect, Commander, this is not a good idea,” Napoleon ignored Illya and addressed Waverly only. “Let me go after Erik and send Illya to deal with Nordström.”

“This is, unfortunately, not possible. U.N.C.L.E.’s IT department has already created a persona for you online. You are businessman Jack Carter, who’s extremely interested in the technology Angrboda LLC offers now or, potentially, could offer in the near future to deal with your landlord competitors back in the US. We need you on Nordström.”

Napoleon sat back in the armchair, ignoring the petrifying glances from Illya as Waverly explained the details of their respectful missions. 

It seemed simple on paper: Gaby asks the neighbours of the missing agent. Illya flirts his way into the missing agent’s colleague’s bed. Napoleon poses as a prospective client to the missing agent’s boss who may or may not have killed the said missing agent. 

Simple. 

_Right?_


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third-person POV of Napoleon's perspective.

_Stockholm. City Centre. Midday._

The Angrboda LLC office was located in Norrmalm, a business area near Gamla Stan, the old city centre of Stockholm. A black Volvo - Napoleon wasn’t sure if it was the same one as before, the black S90 was pretty much identical - pulled right up to the IT company’s building. Solo picked up the briefcase that he used to look like a businessman and exited the car. 

With the jacket straightened and tie fixed he confidently stepped into the glass doors of the company. 

“Morning,” he flashed a smile to a receptionist. “Jack Carter, I have a meeting with mister Nordström”

The receptionist smiled back and quickly typed something – his “name”, Solo noted – into the computer. Confirming that the man in the database looked similar to the man standing in front of her, she picked the phone.

“Mister Carter is here to see you,” a pause. “Understood.” And then, addressing Solo “Please, follow me.”

They went up to the 6th floor, glass walls of the elevator outlooking the square in front of the main doors and the similar glass-walled building on the other side. The irony of investigating a clandestine affair within the walls of transparent offices did not escape him. As well as the irony of the company being named after the Titan who was married to Loki and bore three most destructive children of the Norse mythology: the wolf, the snake and the hell herself. Napoleon was quite certain that the name of the company was chosen for this exact reason and just because it sounded “cool”. They were in Sweden, after all.

Solo smiled with the corner of his lips, although he was sure it was mainly due to nervousness. 

A ding signalled the arrival of their elevator. “Please,” the receptionist gestured for him to go first. She guided him up to the furthest end of the hallway towards the only non-transparent metal door with the plate “Martin Nordström, CEO” on it. 

“Mister Nordström is waiting for you,” and with that she turned and walked away.

Napoleon exhaled and opened the door, fully expecting the CEO’s table to be on the opposite side of the room facing him. 

“Over here,” called a low voice to Solo’s right.

“A bit unusual location for the desk,” Napoleon stretched out his hand, coming up to the table.

“An element of surprise for my enemies, if you will,” said the CEO, rising up from his chair and shaking Napoleon’s hand. 

Even though Solo knew what Martin Nordström looked like from the pictures, his appearance in real life gave off a completely different feeling. His light-blue eyes weren’t inviting, they were more like two cameras on an android, studying your every movement. Sudden flashbacks to Victoria Vinciguerra’s bright eyes didn’t help the situation. 

Raven black hair laid down in soft curls somehow made Martin more menacing rather than welcoming, framing his pale face and giving it even more contrast. Martin Nordström’s facial expression made you feel like he could either fuck you or kill you and he didn’t care either way. 

Napoleon knew a few people like Martin. More importantly, he kept a safe distance from them.

“Do you have a lot of enemies, Mister Nordström?” Napoleon settled for a careful joking tone.

“Please, call me Martin”

“Sure,” Solo smiled and sat down, noting that he didn’t answer his question. “Then you can call me Jack.”

“So, _Jack_ ,” Martin leaned back in his chair. “What brings an American businessman to Sweden?”

“Angrboda LLC, of course”

“We have an office in New York,” the smile on Martin’s face looked like he was entertained by this pretend game they were playing, rather than simply keeping up a friendly conversation. 

Napoleon made a mental note: he was probably being questioned and tested. _Maintain composure._

“The New York office doesn’t have you in it. And I was specifically told to talk to you” 

“Told by whom?”

“Told by people who I tasked with finding the best IT company in the world.”

“We’re not the best IT company, you were lied to,” Martin drew his brows together but still continued smiling, making his tone condescending. The smile never reached his eyes.

“At general tasks, maybe not,” Napoleon nodded. “But I have a very particular set of requirements. You see, the software I need is… of unconventional sorts.”

“How so?”

Napoleon paused and made it look like he was nervous to continue, which wasn’t far from the truth. 

Jack Carter was afraid his request would be denied. Napoleon Solo was afraid his cover would be blown. 

“Before I tell you… I need you to promise me this conversation will stay between us, even if we don’t end up working together.”

That clearly got Nordström’s attention.

“Of course,” he put his elbows on the table and laced the fingers together.

“You see… I was told that you develop a software that might potentially help me with promoting and growing my business, and I’m not talking about website creation. No. I believe you possess a more sophisticated set of tools in your arsenal. I’m not claiming that you definitely have it, I’m just saying what I heard,” carefully stated Napoleon. 

Their conversation felt like a choreographed dance or a fencing match. Step forward. Step back. _Pass._ Needle missed the mark. Another step forward. _Battement._ *

“Why would a landlord need advanced tech? I thought Excel spreadsheets and Google’s targeted ads worked just fine for your purposes?”

“It’s not about the clients, Martin, you see. I was thinking more of diminishing the role of my competitors, so to say.”

“What exactly have you heard about our company?”

“I heard,” Napoleon stated, “that making a contract with you will make the competition go away, making my business monopolistic.”

Martin titled his head, taking a second to think about Jack Carter’s words.

“Let’s assume, for a moment, that Angrboda LLC could help you. What will we get in return?”

Napoleon relaxed slightly, now that the topic of the conversation was more business related. He didn’t enjoy the scrutinising attention of Martin’s gaze that seemed to chip away Napoleon’s composure every second. 

“A quite large sum of money and, possibly, real estate in several American cities, that I would get after my opponents lose their share on the landlord market. The details, _of course_ , will be discussed if we establish that you do indeed have the technology to help me.”

“ _Of course_ ,” Martin nodded, no longer smiling, which made him even more threatening than before. “Let me see what we can do and I’ll call you shortly, Jack. I promise our next meeting will be very soon.”

Napoleon smirked, shaked Martin’s hand and left his office, awfully glad to be out of the CEO's sight. 

***

Using his free time Napoleon went to the Gamla Stan, Old City, ordered a table at a ridiculously overpriced cafe - just like any businessman with some spare time in Stockholm would - and had lunch with a beautiful view of the Stortorget, the Grand Square, famously known as a place of Stockholm Bloodbath. Now it was a modern square with gift shops, cafes and tourist crowds. Honestly, Napoleon had lunch in worse historical places. 

He later walked around the old part of the town, eventually leaving it and using several means of transportation to get back to the safe house. Upon returning to their yellow-coloured base, Napoleon found that he was alone in there. Gaby was probably still busy with questioning Helena’s neighbours and Illya must’ve already left to “accidentally” meet Erik Nilsson at the gay club. 

_Illya._ Napoleon hadn’t thought about him up until that point. The earlier meeting with the CEO completely shook him and made him feel uneasy, replacing all thoughts with an unnerving stare of pale blue eyes. Martin’s eyes were nothing like Illya’s, though they both can be described as “cold”. 

Illya’s cold stare was more like a blue flame. He sized you up, deciding where to hit you. He was a passionate man, always ready to engage in an attack, verbal or physical.

Martin’s cold stare, like Victoria’s, was one of a butcher, emotionlessly cutting through dead meat. He was cold on the inside, still like stone and dangerous. 

Illya was challenging you. Martin was deciding where to hide your body.

Goosebumps rose on Napoleon’s arms. Afternoon’s interaction left him hollow and in dire need to talk to someone else. He decided it was unfair that illya got to spend his day dancing in a club, while he, Napoleon, suffered. Solo reasoned that he also deserved to dance in the club. Preferably, at the same one Illya went to so he could micromanage his colleague’s choices and criticize his poor seducing skills. 

With that idea in mind he went to the shower, already thinking about his unfortunately small range of clothes in the suitcase that made it harder to create a suitable outfit for a gay club. Harder, but not impossible. He could make it work. 

***

_South Stockholm. Gay bar “Side track”. Evening._

The Friday night crowd was packed full of people in colourful outfits and bright makeup, smiling, dancing and making out. Solo felt unusually underdressed which happened quite rarely. In the end he settled for a light coral shirt, black jacket that he wore the night before and black jeans. He also decided not to put pomade into his hair and let it dry in its natural curls which he rarely did, since it reminded him of his naive and awkwardly sloppy 17 year old self. 

He didn’t even make five steps into the club when a guy approached him.

“Hello, handsome”

“Hi,” Napoleon looked around him among the unfamiliar faces, trying to find Illya. 

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“I’m actually looking for someone, sorry,” Solo sidestepped, only to be met by the same guy again. 

“Maybe I can help you find them?”

Napoleon sighed. “A tall and strong Russian guy with blond hair and blue eyes. Have you seen him?” He didn’t expect a positive answer and was ready to ditch his new companion to look after Kuryakin himself when his expectations were suddenly exceeded.

“Yeah, he’s at the bar,” the guy pointed towards a bar stand shining with neon lights. “You’re a lucky man,” a stranger smiled and left him wondering what exactly inspired such a remark. 

Napoleon headed for a staircase leading up on the balcony to have a better view of the whole club. As soon as he leaned onto the railing and scanned the crowd near the bar he saw the man he was looking for and immediately understood the stranger’s words.

Illya was… stunning. He looked so different from his usual self, both in terms of clothing – white cotton trousers and wait, was that a see-through sparkling tank top? Where did he get that? – and his behavior. Kuryakin was leaning back on the bar stand, one hand holding a drink and the other casually going through his hair. It was hard to tell for sure because of poor lighting but Napoleon was willing to bet his money Illya was wearing eye makeup with glitter in it. 

For a second he questioned himself whether he was mistaken or not. Surely, it wasn’t Illya. The man at the bar had nothing in common with the cold Russian agent who did everything by the book and never wore anything beside his brown ratty jacket. Illya, whom he knew, would never casually flirt with men, for a mission or not, not because he saw anything wrong with it but because he simply wasn’t interested in pretending to be someone he’s not. 

Illya Kuryakin wasn’t a flamboyant and emotionally open gay man. Illya Kuryakin was a ball of anger issues and high walls with mysterious preferences for his romantic partners who’d much rather spend his evening playing chess than dancing at the night club.

Turns out, Napoled Solo was wrong, yet again.

The man beside Illya did look like Erik Nilsson from the photographs, so at least Illya was flirting with their target and not with some random men. This thought was somehow relieving, though Napoleon chose not to dawdle in the implications of his thought process. He made his way back onto the first floor and joined the crowd of dancing bodies, keeping an eye on Illya. 

Two songs later Erik took his companion by the hand and dragged him onto the dancefloor as well. 

_This is where he’d break the character. Illya doesn’t dance._

Except he did, apparently. 

Yes, probably his moves weren’t as smooth as Napoleon’s, who spent quite a fair amount of time exploring night life of major cities around the world, but he sure didn’t stand like a tree. Illya put his hands on Erik’s hips, sliding alongside him in the rhythm of music and something snapped inside Napoleon. He took a few steps in their direction, losing his self control for just a couple of seconds. 

But the damage was already done. Illya saw an irregular movement out of the corner of his eyes and met Napoleon’s stare. Solo managed to pull on a mask of a neutral viewer but Illya’s eyes rounded with shock and annoyance. Napoleon gestured for a meeting outside the bar. 

Probably it was a bad idea to come to the same club. 

“What are you doing here?” Illya was a walking tornado of balled fists and angry stares.

“I was simply dying to see how you’re failing this mission”

“I am not. I got his attention and we were dancing before you showed up”

“Yes, I noticed. And why exactly did you decide to rob Freddy Mercury’s closet beforehand?”

“What?” Illya frowned and it made the glitter on his eyes shine quicker. Oh, yes, he was wearing eye makeup, and it was definitely visible under the streetlights.

“Nevermind,” Napoleon pinched the bridge of his nose. “Good luck in your endeavour. Pretend I’m not here.” He took a step towards the club but was stopped by Illya’s hand.

“Wait,” Illya looked around them, took Napoleon by his shoulders and pulled him towards the nearby alleyway. “I need your help”

Solo could help but raise his eyebrows.

“Sorry, did I mishear that? You need my help”

“Yes, shut up,” annoyance must’ve made Illya realise that he was still holding Solo’s shoulders and he took his hands away. “I need you to steal Erik’s phone and see the messages between him and Helena. It might make things quicker”

“Fine,” Napoleon sighed, after a moment’s consideration. He didn’t come here to work, _not exactly_ , but he wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to make a significant progress in their mission. And show off his larcenist skills, naturally.

He let Illya return to the club first and then went in, tracking the pair’s whereabouts. Illya made Erik go to the bar stand and Solo lingered somewhere behind Erik’s back.

“You mentioned you have a cat. Do you have photos of him?” asked Illya, raising his voice higher than the music.

“It’s a she,” Erik smiled. “Yeah, just a sec.” He produced a phone from his pocket and Illya shot a glance at Napoleon.

Solo nodded and started waiting for the perfect opportunity. Quite soon Erik put his phone on the bar stand – not even locking it, Christ, some people had no sense of self-preservation. 

Unfortunately, Erik seemed none the wiser regarding Helena’s whereabouts. His last messages were things like “Are you okay?” and “Call me if you can”. Previous conversations contained generic friendly banter and pictures they sent each other. Solo checked his social media as well, finding the direct messages to Helena in each one but it looked pretty much the same. 

He carefully placed the phone back on the bar stand and shook his head at Illya who was currently broadly smiling at the story Erik was passionately telling him but he knew Kuryakin would see the motion with his peripheral vision. 

Seeing Illya smile wasn’t a rare sight, especially lately but it was seldom directed at Napoleon. Arrogant smirk or strenuous grin were the best options he could get and it sparked a flash of jealousy within him. 

Men like Illya didn’t like men like Napoleon. Because they never considered them as worthy partners, seeing them only as superficial dolls with emptiness inside. Illya must’ve longed for an open and loving person, like Gaby, for example. This is why Napoleon was taking a step back, metaphorically and physically at the current moment. 

Solo blended with the dancing crowd, trying to lose himself among the bodies. He moved, disappearing in the music, letting it consume him. A steady techno beat shook him to his bones, turning him into the vibrating membrane, copying the resonance of the melody. 

Half-naked and naked bodies were moving near him, grinding, stroking and turning him on. This was what he wanted. Pure lust; sweat-filled passion-driven pure lust. 

There was nothing in the world right now. No agents, no missions, no supervisors. There was only him, lost in the music, dancing in the tight spot between hot bodies. This night no one could kill him. No one gave him tasks. He felt free.

He was completely entranced by the sounds of electro beats when his back stumbled into another back. A perfect opportunity to strike a conversation with a person he’d spend the night with. It didn’t matter who it was, as long as it was safe, sane and consensual. 

Napoleon pulled on his best seductive grin with a flirtatious glimpse in his eyes, ready to deliver his pick-up line that worked 9 out of 10 times. He turned around only to realise it was Illya who bumped into him. Smiling and almost glowing Illya who radiated heat and desire. 

Their eyes met, and suddenly there was no one around. Only them, open and vulnerable to each other. All walls taken down. Smashed, ruined, completely obliterated. 

The smile disappeared from Napoleon’s face, his pretend mask slowly melting into oblivion. He wasn’t ready. And he was always ready for everything. He could handle any situation, he performed better than any other agent under stress. 

But he wasn’t expecting to see Illya _like this_. The man he desired and adored, now with less clothes than usual, open and hot from dancing and playing the role. Illya was a weapon that Napoleon had no protection from. 

Napoleon was ready to jeopardise the whole mission just for the chance to touch Illya right now, sweat covering his forehead and reflecting neon lights from the bar, eyes so full of life and joy, body almost naked the way it never was before.

“Illya?” Erik’s voice called somewhere from another dimension.

And just like that the reality came crashing down like a ton of bricks onto his head, snapping Napoleon out of transfixion. 

“Sorry,” said Illya, turning back to his companion.

“No, it’s my fault,” dropped Napoleon, almost immediately retrieving to the far end of the club. 

He almost ruined their whole mission, twice in just one evening. Illya Kuryakin was a terrible influence on him and his composure. He had a thought of finding someone to spend the night with but he knew, he perfectly knew that the only thing he’d be thinking about that night and probably many nights in the future is the sight of Illya he witnessed today. 

_Impossible to reach. Unbearable to stand. Insufferable to love._

He didn’t stay long at the club, going back to the safe house, lost in his thoughts and conflicting emotions. Tomorrow he’d collect himself and build a wall, protecting him from a lethal weapon called Illya. Tomorrow he will win this war between them. But today he accepted that he lost this battle and gave in, for just a second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ___  
> *Pass and Battement are terms from fencing. “Pass” means a hard thrust forward in order to stab the opponent. “Battement” (French) is the same, only during battement a player twists the opponent’s epee (sword) with their own, making it go down and to the side, while also trying to stab the opponent.


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third-person POV from Illya's perspective.

_Stockholm. Safe house. Morning of the previous day._

“I have no idea what to wear to the gay club,” said Illya, coming into Gaby’s room before she was off pretending to be the missing agent’s worried sister. Napoleon, thankfully, had already left.

“That’s not something I thought I’d hear you say,” replied Gaby, smiling. “Well, let’s see what you have, maybe we’ll find something suitable”

“No. I looked through my clothes, there’s absolutely nothing suitable”

Gaby crossed her hands and thought about their plan of action, staring in the distance.

“Okay, we have plenty of time before you have to go to the club. Let’s go ask around Helena’s neighbours together and then we’ll go find something in the shopping mall”

“Horosho*,” breathed out Illya in relief. 

If he wanted to prove to himself and everyone else - _Napoleon Solo_ \- that he was capable of seducing a target just as good as any other agent - _Napoleon Solo_ \- then he had to look presentable. No, he had to look dazzling. 

***

Helena Pierce’s neighbours were the most stereotypical Swedes they’ve met so far. Not only did they not want to have any conversations with the strangers, they didn’t even know what their neighbours looked like. A nice trait to perform B&E around them but absolutely maddening to question while looking for a missing person.

“This is a waste of time,” said Gaby, coming back to the car she demanded from Waverly for their mission, inconspicuous silver Saab, manufactured in the year 2000. “Alright, we’re going shopping then”

Illya’s heart skipped a bit because damn, he was nervous to try to wear something other than a two-piece suit or this trustworthy turtleneck. Why wear anything else when your own clothes function well enough?

 _For a mission_ , Illya reminded himself. _To prove that he can pretend to be someone else. To prove that he can act differently and lure people in with his acting abilities. To test the limits of how far he can bend the truth by being a perfect spy._

_He could be just like Napoleon. Heartless._

The car came to an abrupt stop on the edge of the road, and Gaby excitedly said “There!”

There was a thrift shop to their right with flashy clothes on the mannequins standing in the window.

“I thought we were going to the shopping mall”

“No, Illya, this is exactly what you need,” she pointed to one of the mannequins that wore a see-through tank-top that somehow managed to be glistening. 

“I’m not wearing that!” he turned back towards her with horror on his face. In return he saw a confident smile and excited nodding.

“Yes, you are”

Yes, he was. Illya was standing in the dressing room in the said tank-top when Gaby brought him blinding bright-white trousers which, as he realised in about 15 seconds, were inexcusably low-wasted. 

“Did the trousers fit you? I can fetch you a similar pair a size bigger”

“No, no,” Illya replied, absentmindedly. “They fit”

“Well, come on out then”

 _He couldn’t. He won’t. How could he?_ A person staring back at him from the mirror was someone he never saw before. It was a tall, broad-shouldered man who wore a fishnet tank top, of all things, to show off his muscles. Illya was pretty sure he never wore low-waisted trousers and he rarely wore white but the man in the mirror certainly did. His hair was ruffled from taking off the turtleneck, sticking out like he had just woken up or was manhandled by someone else, and _not in a bad way._

“Illya, is everything al–” Gaby peeked through the curtain and cut off. “Oh my god”

“I’m not wearing that”

“You-- You are!” she was either in shock or on the verge of laughing which made him look even more miserable.

“No, this was a bad idea,” he raised his hand to shut the curtain off so he could switch back to his usual attire but was roughly pulled out from the dressing room by Gaby.

“Illya, look at yourself,” she brought him closer to the full-length mirror in the shop. “You look gorgeous. Erik doesn’t stand a chance. Fuck, no one does,” she playfully shoved him on the shoulder.

He had to admit, yes, the man in the mirror did look handsome. But it wasn’t him. The smile that he caught from Gaby slowly faded away. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t belong in these clothes. In this lifestyle”

“You don’t have to,” she took a few steps to stand in front of him. “Tonight you’re not yourself. In fact, we all need you to be someone else”

“But Napoleon is always himself on the missions,” he blurted out, catching himself at the last second.

Gaby sighed. “Is this what this is about? You’re worried that you’re not like Napoleon”

Instead of answering, Illya averted his gaze.

“Illya. Illya, look at me,” when he strained his eyes to meet hers, she continued. “We can’t all be like Napoleon. He lives and breathes this lifestyle, while people like you and I have to work our asses off not to blow the cover. I constantly have to remind myself why I do what I do,” she lowered her voice in the last sentence. 

He shrugged, in a way agreeing with her. 

“You want to know what Napoleon can’t do? He can’t run as fast. He can’t win every single fight he gets into. He certainly can’t lift a motorcycle,” she emphasized this statement by raising her eyebrows. 

That got a smile out of Illya.

“There you go. See… We’re all different. There’s no point in comparing yourself to another…” she whispered “agent.”

“Thank you”

And then, feeling suddenly emotional he hugged Gaby. Holding her tight he quietly said “Thank you” again, this time slightly different, hoping that she would understand what he meant this time. _Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for having a heart._ He carefully squeezed her and felt her hug him back as hard as she could, conceivably understanding.

***

“He’s coming” was the message Illya received on his phone just as he was getting comfortable on the bar stool. Erik would be here any minute and Illya had no idea how to casually flirt with a man in a gay club. Or with anyone at any club, for that matter.

 _Tonight you’re not yourself_ , Gaby’s voice in his head reminded him. 

Right. The person Illya was playing knew exactly how to flirt with any men in a gay club. He exhaled and tried to channel this other person. While he did that he forgot why his eyes were itching and almost scraped off the glitter eyeshadow Gaby put on him earlier. “ _It would look great on you_.” And the truth was, it did. Silver and dark blue glitter complimented his light-blue eyes and tied the whole look together. 

Erik Nilsson appeared soon after. He was a short man – or, at least, short compared to Illya but then again, almost everyone was shorter than Illya – with glasses that seemed too big for his face, which was why he was constantly adjusting them. Erik wasn’t dressed as extravagantly as Illya but it was obvious that those weren’t his everyday work clothes. 

Kuryakin called for a barman to get his attention and get right in front of Erik. He felt a gaze oh himself but wanted to play it cool, told his order and casually leaned on the bar stand. 

Erik was standing nearby, eyes absolutely glued to Illya’s body, slowly creeping up until he met the man’s glitter-framed stare. He promptly closed his mouth and swallowed. 

“Sorry,” he pulled himself together, fixing his glasses. “I didn’t mean to stare”

“It’s okay,” Illya smiled. “I’m not complaining”

“You have a…a very interesting accent,” said Erik, still shooting side glances at Illya. 

“Russian,” Illya smirked. “I also have a Russian name”

“Really? What is it?” 

“Illya”

“Illya. That’s a beautiful name. I’m Erik,” he smiled shyly.

“Nice to meet you, Erik. Want to have a drink?” He thought that he sounded too cocky so he quickly added “If you don’t have a date already.”

“No,” the other man awkwardly laughed. “I’m alone here”

“What a coincidence. I’m alone in here too,” Illya smiled again, moving just a little bit closer to Erik.

Turns out, flirting with people wasn’t so hard after all when they’re not complete pricks, and Erik Nilsson seemed like an okay person. Soon they were laughing together, sharing a few drinks and having a great time.

***

“Oh, I love this song! Let’s go dance”

Illya’s first reaction was to refuse and stay near the bar but he had to remind himself that today he was someone who danced at the nightclubs with people who he’d met just under two hours ago. 

It was weirdly liberating to move alongside someone nodding his head to the beat and letting the music consume him entirely. 

It was. 

Right until the point he saw movement out of the corner of his eyes. Someone was quickly approaching them across the dancefloor. A quick glance made Illya snap out of his character in less than a second. The man who was looking right at him was Napoleon Solo.

He vaguely remembered seeing how Napoleon gestured for him to go outside. Illya was relatively sure he made some sort of excuse of needing a bit of fresh air for Erik but he almost didn’t remember storming through the crowd.

Cold night breeze put him back to his senses a little bit, at least he had some sort of control over his behavior, but seeing Napoleon stand under the streetlight - coral shirt peeking out from underneath a black jacket - brought him back onto the edge of the rage territory. 

_He wasn’t supposed to be here._

“I’m simply dying to see how you’re failing this mission” 

A wave of anger flushed over Illya. Of course Napoleon didn’t think that he was capable of succeeding, because it was Solo who had always gotten the seduction tasks, so he definitely thought that he was the only agent fit for those goals.

“I am not. I got his attention and we were dancing before you showed up”

“Yes, I noticed. And why exactly did you decide to rob Freddy Mercury’s closet beforehand?”

“What?” he was pretty sure there was nothing wrong with looking like Freddie Mercury in the gay club but Napoleon’s tone somehow made it look like it was.

Napoleon brushed his question off and wished him luck, opting to go back inside but Illya stopped him and dragged him into the alley nearby. Upon quickly thinking about it, he could use his skills in their mission, given that Solo was here anyway. 

“Sorry, did I mishear that? You need my help”

“Yes, shut up,” Illya frowned and squeezed his hands, only then realising that he left his palms on Napoleon’s shoulders. He explained his idea of stealing Erik’s phone to go through his messages and for once the fellow agent didn’t argue with him. 

Going through the affair turned out to be easy, albeit fruitless. Napoleon’s negative head gesture made Illya tighten his jaw and smile a little more zealously while talking to Erik. He needed to ask him about Helena in person but so far their conversation wasn’t getting into the discussion of missing persons territory. Solo lost himself somewhere in the crowd and Illya breathed more freely, putting all of his attention to his companion. 

“Okay, I know I’m talking too much,” concluded Erik, slurring his words just a little bit on the tipsy side. “Let’s go dance again”

Erik’s company was pleasant and dancing with him was fun. He was like an open book, all of his emotions were immediately showing on his face, leaving no place for doubt. Illya felt safe, knowing the man beside him wasn’t lying or pretending. Illya was quite happy to be given this mission, he was having a very good time, probably for the first time as a cover agent tasked with being in close proximity to their target. 

Illya was smiling, as he stroked his hands around Erik’s waist. He was getting into the rhythm of the song as he suddenly stumbled upon someone behind him, quickly turning to apologize for the inconvenience.

There was absolutely no way he could be prepared for what he saw.

He was met with Napoleon Solo’s ten million-dollar smile and an aura of lust and desire which he was completely susceptible to. He’d seen Napoleon’s charm from far away and each and every time it affected him, but experiencing it first hand was disarming to say the least. 

Illya’s defenses were completely undone. He lost his focus and the wave of Napoleon’s whole being flushed over him, overwhelming. Giving in never sounded so tempting and sweet. 

Screw the mission, screw U.N.C.L.E. and the people around them. All Illya wanted to do is to drop onto his knees and let Napoleon absolutely ruin him. He wanted to feel his hand touch his face and his body right now and he was dangerously close to begging for it. 

Illya was floored and frozen, pinned to one place by Solo’s eyes, neon lights reflected in them. Illya reflected in them. 

He was absolutely sure that he’d stay like this for an infinite amount of time, should deus ex machina in the form of Erik calling his name hadn’t interfered. 

“Sorry,” dropped Kuryakin, willing his body to turn away. 

Napoleon said something in return but Illya wasn’t listening. He had to block him out, otherwise the mission would be ruined, just as Illya’s self composure already was. He spent the rest of the evening making a mental effort not to look for another agent or take his focus away from Erik. 

At least it worked to his advantage because by the end of the evening he was invited to spend the night at another man’s apartment. 

***

It was a typical Scandinavian flat with minimalistic decor, nothing out of the ordinary. Erik turned on the lights when they walked in, proceeding to go into the kitchen.  
A fluffy black cat - Ängel, as Illya remembered from the photos - trotted out to greet her owner and stared at the stranger in the hallway, putting her nose up to smell the air.

“Do you want coffee? Or tea?”

“Water would be good, thanks,” Kuryakin shot a smile at the slightly swaying man, who had just slightly too much to drink, as he joined him in the kitchen, carefully sidestepping the cat. 

“Okay, just a sec!”

Illya sat at the table, leaning forward on his elbows and looking around. A strange object - a box full of someone’s belongings - immediately caught his attention, even more so after he noticed that a metal plaque with a name ending with “ierce” was peeking out. 

“What’s that?” he tried to make his voice sound as casual as possible.

“Oh, this,” the host turned towards him holding a glass of water with a sorrowful expression on his face. “My colleague has gone missing. I’m holding onto her stuff in the hopes that she’d come back.”

Illya accepted the glass and took a few sips, although thirst was the last thing that bothered him. “When did she go missing?”

“About a month ago,” Erik put his hands on another chair’s back to stop himself from swaying. “You know, the saddest thing is, I talked to her the day she disappeared. It was just a regular Tuesday. Well, no, not the regular,” he frowned, remembering something. “Usually we went home together but that day our boss called her to his office at around six when we were getting ready to leave. She told me not to wait for her,” he sighed, completely heartbroken, and the corners of his lips went down. “I should’ve waited. I feel like this is my fault”

“It’s not,” Illya put one of his palms on top of Erik’s. “You don’t know what happened”

“Yeah, but… what if she got kidnapped because she was alone that night?”

“Still, this isn’t your fault”

Words didn’t seem to do the job so Illya rose from his seat and hugged Erik. As soon as his hands connected around another man, he heard quiet sobs. 

“Hey, _hey_. Don’t blame yourself”

They stayed like that for a few minutes after which Erik inhaled sharply, wiping his tears from under his glasses.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to be such a mood killer. If you want to leave, I understand”

The thing was… there was no actual reason for Illya to stay. He obtained valuable information and Erik provided him with a natural opportunity to get out. 

But Illya felt like he wanted to stay. 

Erik was nice. Erik was kind. Erik was… normal. And Illya didn’t have a normal company for many years now, always surrounded by either people who wanted to kill him or people who could pretend to be anyone else, never showing their true faces. He got so used to always being on the edge of his seat, alert at all times, he never really stopped and thought about how tiring it was. 

“Why would I leave? You didn’t show me your whole apartment yet,” this time he didn’t need to pretend to smile, it came out naturally.

Erik smiled in return, eyes still watery but already carrying a happier expression. 

“Well, you saw the kitchen,” he chuckled awkwardly. “The bathroom is over here,” he said as he led him through his apartment. “I recently got this new shower, it’s amazing, you should definitely try it. Oh, also I got these green linen sheets from IKEA a while ago and they feel so interesting. By the way, here’s the bedroom. Not like I insist on you going in there, just wanted to show off my cool bed sheets. Then there's the living room, there’s not much there, I mostly use it to play on the console. By the way, this game recently came out…”

***

Yes, Erik was nice and he was kind. He was certainly normal. 

And he also had a completely boring life that Illya knew would never suit him. He thought that he wanted a vacation from his crazy job. Turned out, he just needed to take a five minute break out of work to realise he was dying to get back into action.

He was an agent. He was a spy. He was an adrenaline junkie hooked on his job. And he was absolutely, one hundred percent certain this would be the reason for his downfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _____  
> *”Horosho” (Russian) means “good; okay”.


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third-person POV from Napoleon's perspective.

_Stockholm. Safe house. Early morning._

Napoleon vaguely remembered going to bed the previous night but he was sure in one thing: he certainly didn’t get enough sleep. His alarm clock said it was seven a.m. already, giving him an hour before Waverly would come for the report.

He quickly showered, put on a bathrobe he was provided with, appreciating its nice quality - although he’d rather have it in black than in dark-green - and proceeded to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

As he poured boiling water into his cup, Gaby emerged from her room.

“Good morning. Have you slept well?”

Instead of answering, she sighed, rubbing her eyes.

“Insomnia again?”

“Never went away,” she smiled sadly, sitting down at the kitchen table. “Has Illya come back?”

“I don’t know,” he put as little emotion into his voice as possible. Images from the previous night insistently banged on the door on his self-composure, returning to haunt him.

Gaby stood up to approach the door of Kuryakin’s room, knocking a few times.

“Illya?”

No response.

She opened the door, carefully peeking in and then loudly breathing out. “He’s not here. Do you think he’s okay?”

“I’m sure he’s perfectly fine,” smiled Napoleon, drinking his coffee, gripping his cup just a little bit too tight. 

***

“Our special agent is not joining us today?” asked Waverly, settling on the armchair in the living room.

Gaby shrugged her shoulders.

“No idea,” smugly commented Napoleon, soaking in the fact that currently he was proving that he was a better agent, present at the meeting, unlike certain people. 

A couple of seconds later Illya stormed through the door which inflicted three pairs of eyes to look directly at him. _He was still wearing the damn tank top with the damn eye makeup._

“Sorry, I’m late” 

“It’s good to see you, agent Kuryakin. Have you decided to change your style?”

“I, uh… It’s for the mission,” he sounded perplexed, at the same time trying to figure out where to sit. The only remaining seat was near Napoleon on the couch and Illya visibly despised the idea of being near him. 

Solo shot him a provocative stare, to which Illya replied by sitting down heavily next to him. 

“Good, since we’re all here, I would like to hear your report on yesterday's tasks. Agent Teller?”

“The neighbours were useless. No one saw Helena come or go, some didn’t even know she lived near them.”

“That is the Swedish nature, I’m afraid,” nodded Waverly. “Agent Kuryakin?”

“I’ve met with Helena’s colleague. Erik,” he briefly paused. “He told me their boss asked her to stay at his office after work hours the day Helena disappeared. He doesn’t know much else.”

“You think Nordström is behind it?” asked Gaby.

“Well, he certainly looks like someone who could kill a person,” intercepted Napoleon. 

“She’s not dead!” exclaimed Illya, sending him an angry glare.

Napoleon was about to reply with a sarcastic remark, should Waverly hadn’t interfered. 

“Gentlemen, please,” he paused, daring them to continue arguing but they only settled for a staring contest. “Agent Solo, what is our status with Martin Nordström?”

“He’s interested in doing business with Jack Carter,” replied Napoleon, finally breaking eye contact with Illya. “He said that he’s going to look into the ways he can help me and call back. I’m assuming he’s doing a background check.”

“Good thing we’ve prepared for it,” Waverly shot him a quick smile. “Then we’ll wait and continue our own research. So far Nordström is our main and only lead. Good work, agents. I’ll leave you to it, then”

And with that he rose to his feet, straightened his jacket and walked out the front door.

“Didn’t have time to wipe that make-up?” asked Napoleon, not even looking at Illya.

“I was busy”

“Have you at least used a condom?” he gathered his willpower to turn his head and look at his work partner, taking pleasure in this confrontation and the way Kuryakin was immediately filled with murderous rage. 

“That is none of your business”

“Oh, so you did fuck him?”

“I’m not answering that”

“So Erik was the one who did the fucking? I didn’t take you for a power bottom, Peril”  
Illya shot up on his feet, just a second away from punching Solo and wiping the smug grin off his face.

“Enough,” interrupted Gaby. She didn’t even sound mad at this point, mostly tired from listening to two agents fighting and bickering. 

Kuryakin calmed down enough to side-step away from the couch and head to the shower.

“Why do you keep doing that? I thought you two stopped comparing the size of your dicks back in Rome”

“I must admit, seeing our Red Peril mad truly brings me joy,” stated Napoleon, picking fluff from his bathrobe.

Gaby shook her head and said, mostly to herself “Can’t believe he wants to be like you”

“Sorry, what was that?”

She quickly turned her head towards him, realising she must’ve said something she wasn’t supposed to. “Illya, he, uh… He mentioned. That he wanted to prove that he could be like you”

“Which is what, exactly?”

“Someone who plays with people’s emotions and doesn’t feel remorse after that,” she tilted her head and then rose, leaving him alone on the couch. 

So, this is what Illya was doing. More importantly, _this is how he felt._ It wasn’t because he didn’t like Napoleon but because he didn’t trust him. He thought that his advances were just a pretense, a game. 

Napoleon finally understood what he needed to do. He needed to be completely honest with another person, probably for the first time in his life. 

***

Turns out, talking to someone who didn’t want to talk to you - even if you were at the same house - was extremely difficult. Illya spent the day either in his room with the door locked (and Napoleon felt like lockpicking his way into the serious conversation definitely wasn’t the way to go) or with Gaby, lying down on the living room couch. 

Finally, an opportunity arose when Gaby went to take a bath and Illya was left alone in the kitchen, throwing together a dinner from the food they had in the fridge.

“Smells nice. What is it?”

Illya’s shoulders tensed. “Stew”

“Can I try it?”

“It’s not ready yet”

Napoleon moved closer, leaning over Kuryakin’s side and looking into the pan, as Illya froze completely.

“Looks good to me. Do you mind?” He carefully took a wooden spoon from his hand and scooped himself a chunk of stew. “I think it needs more salt”

“It’s not your meal,” dropped Illya, taking back his utensil. “This is for me and Gaby. You can make your own later”

_Easy, Solo. Don’t push him away._

“I can, you’re right. Or I could just add salt to my plate and share dinner with you,” he smiled what he hoped was a friendly grin. 

“What do you want, Solo?” 

Not a good sign. Illya called him by his surname when he was seriously mad or annoyed, which was quite often, too often for Napoleon’s liking. Usually he opted for a distancing and mocking “Cowboy” when he was in a good mood. And he almost never called him by his first name. 

“I’m having a friendly chat with a fellow agent”

Illya didn’t bother with replying to him, simply continuing to stir his stew. 

“So, how’s nightlife in Stockholm? Was it everything that you expected?”

The other man stopped stirring and rolled his eyes, loudly breathing in. 

_Careful._

“It was fine. I had a good company”

“Oh?” He couldn’t quite figure out if it was just a fact on its own or Illya mentioned it on purpose. “I’m glad you had a good time. However, I must ask, do you plan on meeting Erik again today?”

“I don’t know yet,” Kuryakin turned to him with his whole body. “But I don’t think it’s any of your business,” he sounded weirdly calm saying that, none of the previous irritation remained. 

“It is, actually”

“Oh, how so?” Illya put the wooden spoon on the counter, simultaneously switching off the stove, and crossed his hands, once again shifting into his defensive position. 

“You’re an undercover agent on a mission and I, as your colleague, need to know your whereabouts in case something goes wrong”

“I think I can handle myself”

Napoleon closed his eyes for a moment, calming the rising aggravation. “I’m sure you can, Peril. But this isn’t about whether or not you can defend yourself from the street bandits”

“What is this about, then?”

“I’m worried that you may forget that this is not your potential boyfriend you’re dealing with. Erik Nilssen is a target who mustn’t, under any circumstances, know who you are”

“What does that have to do with anything? I know how to do my job”

“You’ve said that he doesn’t know anything about Helena’s disappearance, why would you bother coming back to him?” jealousy crept into Napoleon’s voice making him frown as he realised the conversation wasn’t going the way it was supposed to.

“Maybe I want to be with a man whose company I actually enjoy”

The last sentence hung in the air, unexpected by both men, as much as Napoleon could judge from Illya’s quick stunned and regretful expression. 

_Ouch._

Napoleon was taken aback by that comment, and apparently so was Kuryakin because he tried to step away from the counter, away from Napoleon. But Solo didn’t let him, putting his hand up against the kitchen wall cabinet, blocking him from going through. 

Despite such a brave action, Napoleon hadn’t actually come up with anything to say, which was certainly rare for him. It did surprise him, however, that Illya hadn’t said anything either. 

“Are you done talking, gentlemen?” came a voice that sent a chill down Napoleon’s spine. First of all, it was a man’s voice and the only other man in the flat was staring with confusion into his eyes. Second of all, he heard that voice yesterday and he really wished he didn’t.

Due to the location of the kitchen they didn’t see the front door and the hallway but Napoleon knew who was standing there even before the two agents walked out of the corner. 

Martin Nordström, in the flesh, surrounded by three tough-looking bodyguards. 

“As I said, _Jack_ , our next meeting is going to be very soon. Or... do you prefer for people to call you Napoleon?”

Alarm bells rang loudly in Napoleon’s head and he felt the need to protect himself, to gain an upper hand in their interaction, because, clearly, they were losing at the moment. After a rapid analysis Solo became painfully aware that neither him nor Illya had any weapons on them.

“I assure you, it is in your best interests to follow me and not do anything stupid,” he smiled the same cold smile as before. “If you want to see Gabriella Teller again, of course. And... if you want to finally meet our star of the show, Helena Pierce, the woman you were dying to meet all this time” 

Napoleon and Illya exchanged careful looks and accepted they were probably outnumbered and definitely outsmarted so there was no other choice except to go after Martin into the darkness of Stockholm's street. 

***

_Somewhere in Stockholm. Sometime at night._

They were brought to an inconspicuous warehouse in a van with no windows in the presence of more bodyguards, these ones carrying pistols. As soon as they were shoved outside onto the street, two tough-looking guards punched them both in the stomach while the others put obscure bags on their heads.

Napoleon and Illya both remained silent, even while they were being beaten, because so far it wasn’t the worst they’d experienced. Solo reasoned the bags were needed in case they tried to remember the escape route, should they or would they have an opportunity to get away.

When the bag was finally removed from Napoleon’s head he found himself in a cinder block room with a small window near the ceiling. Three other people were sitting on the floor like he was: Illya, confused but relatively calm, Gaby, visibly disturbed but seemingly uninjured, and a woman that Napoleon realised was Helena Pierce. She was unconscious but someone propped her up on the wall so she stayed in the sitting position. Judging by the bruises and scratches on her face she had a rough time lately. 

“An underwhelming meeting, I know. But she’s not really talkative anyway. This is why we were waiting for you,” Martin came down into the crouching position, eyes on one level with Solo. “I certainly hope you’re willing to talk. Otherwise our meeting would be over soon”

The guards were pointing their weapons at the prisoners but the thing Napoleon quickly realised was neither their hands nor legs were tied which gave him an idea.

“I’ll gladly talk to you about anything you want to know but first… may I ask you a daring question?”

Asking this should’ve peaked Illya’s attention by now since it was their code-phrase for “ _Be ready to attack at the first possible moment_.” Napoleon just had to stall long enough to bring Martin’s focus to him, averting his gaze from another agent. 

“Sure,” Nordström got up and placed his hands on his hips. _Too unstable yet._

“How did you find out who I am?”

“Face recognition technology. Successfully completed our beta-testing, thanks to you,” Martin smiled as he took a gun from one of his bodyguards. _Not good._ If he was getting ready to shoot someone, Napoleon needed to intervene. 

“I thought you only did deep-fakes. Expanding your business already?”

“We perfected deep-fakes a year ago. It was just a first stage,” his gaze remained on Napoleon for a precious couple of seconds, and Solo prayed Illya noticed it too. 

_Bang!_

The shot ring in his ears, as he shifted his eyes and saw Illya, falling on his knees, squeezing his thigh that started bleeding profusely. 

Martin lowered himself in the squatting position again, perfectly calm as he was before. “As I said, deep-fakes were only the first stage. Developing a facial recognition software is the next step we’re working on. So far it has identified an undercover agent who pretended to be a businessman. Not bad, huh?” 

Napoleon put all of his effort into continuing the conversation with Martin, trying not to think about his partner in danger and most certainly in pain. 

“Impressive. And what exactly are you planning to do with this technology?”

“I’m afraid that’s between me and my clients, mister Solo. I don’t like anyone snooping around in my business,” he pointed his gun towards Illya. “I also don’t like when people try to fool me with smooth talk and distract me”

Solo sent a cold stare at his head as Martin stood back up.

“Keep this one alive,” he addressed his guards, pointing at Napoleon. “The rest are unnecessary”

As the door closed behind Nordström, two of the four guards remaining in the room cracked their necks and knuckles, getting ready to beat the shit out of the agents, while the other two reloaded their guns.

Napoleon quickly estimated their chances. He himself wasn’t beaten, yet, and fortunately he wasn’t tied, which meant that he could freely move within the confinement of the room. 

Illya, slightly weakened by being shot in the leg, roughly equalled a normal person with more than average training. Given the amount of his bleeding, they should be moving rapidly, otherwise Kuryakin would pass out from the blood loss. 

Gaby was better at handling guns than in close combat, though she could fight if necessary, and it was definitely necessary now. 

Helena was unconscious, so it was unlikely she was either going to be attacking or attacked; so they were outnumbered 4:3. 

_Priority number one: take out the two men with guns._

Napoleon dodged the flying fist from one unarmed man, swiftly rolling towards one gun-holding guard, twisting his hand and extracting the pistol that Solo simultaneously used to shoot at the first attacking guard. As he was turning around, he noticed the other armed guard, already unarmed, in close combat with Illya. Kuryakin, fuelled by adrenaline of their situation and endorphins blocking the pain from the wound, was successfully staying alive. Gaby was already going after the fourth guard.

Apparently, Napoleon spent a little too long keeping track of his colleagues, because the next thing he felt was a sharp pain in his abdomen from being punched by the hand-twisted man. It made him lose his balance, so he wasn’t as quick at registering what was happening. The guard that he was manhandling shoved him into the wall and joined the one that Illya was punching earlier, so that the two of them could take down Kuryakin. Unfortunately, by the looks of it, they had a good chance of succeeding. 

Solo’s head rang, probably from a concussion after meeting the cinder block wall. Gaby groaned in pain somewhere to his right and three bodies tangled in a fight to his left. The guard Napoleon shot earlier was, thankfully, lying unmoving on the floor. 

At that moment he had an important choice to make, and he had to be thinking fast. He could only successfully help one of his fellow agents, leaving the other to deal with danger. Fast. 

_Priority number two: decide which agent he had to trust to handle their situation on their own._

Gaby wasn’t as skilled in martial arts. She needed help.

Illya was shot and beaten, currently dealing with two guards. He needed help. 

Napoleon vaguely remembered that there were supposed to be two guns in the room but he didn’t immediately see them and looking for them could take precious moments from their lives.

He first swayed towards Gaby, deciding to finish with the smaller problem before moving onto the bigger one but Illya’s distressed grunt made Napoleon turn and immediately jump onto the back of an attacking man, rolling over and pushing him into the floor. Solo punched the guard unconscious only to find more problems in the way the other guard was hitting Illya on the face. Taking the enemy by surprise, Napoleon kicked him on the back of his knees, giving Illya enough time to recollect himself and knock the man out with one punch. 

They turned to find Gaby unsteadily getting up from the floor where the man she fought with lay motionless. 

After a few seconds of catching their breath they started to realise that all of them were hurt pretty badly. 

“Gaby, can you walk by yourself?” asked Napoleon.

“Yeah?” she answered, wiping blood dripping from her split eyebrow.

“Take Illya and go, I’ll get Helena”

They made it a few hallways through the warehouse - with no resistance at all, they were completely empty - to be found by an armed team of special agents, the ones that usually worked with U.N.C.L.E. on international missions. Napoleon carefully handed Helena’s body and followed the team to the exit where they were met by Waverly. 

“Is everyone alright?”

“Illya is shot and he lost a lot of blood,” Napoleon heard Gaby say, as he felt himself swaying slightly. 

The last thing he processed was Gaby and Waverly calling his name before he blacked out, falling on the ground.


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third-person POV from Illya's perspective.

_Somewhere. Sometime. Does it matter? There was only the darkness of his dream._

Getting shot at is never fun. Getting shot in the leg is even less fun. Still, it’s better than being shot in the head.

Illya felt the pain in his thigh even before he fully gained his consciousness back. As he slowly came back to his senses, he realised a few things: he was lying on his back on something soft, most probably a bed; his leg was bandaged; the room he was in was quiet, the silence only interrupted by Illya’s breathing. 

No, someone else’s breathing as well. 

Kuryakin slowed his breaths, trying to understand whether another person was going to hurt him or not. After a few seconds it became obvious that this someone else was asleep, so Illya dared to open his eyes. 

The room was spacious yet crowded with furniture reminiscent of late baroque style, a drastic change from the minimalistic modern Scandinavian interiors they saw before. It was dark outside but the large heavy curtains weren’t shut, letting some of the streetlight to seep through. The bed Illya was lying on was near the furthest wall of the room in regards to the entrance. 

Considering the interaction they had just a few hours ago - at least Illya thought that only the few hours had passed - they were most likely placed in another safe house, given that their own was compromised, and judging from the architecture it was the one Alexander Waverly himself stayed at. So, if this was a safe house then the man on the bed next to him was…

“ _Napoleon_ ,” whispered Illya, breathing out with relief. 

He didn’t have a strong recollection of the evening, first focusing on attacking Martin Nordström after Napoleon signalled him with the code phrase and then figuring out how to stay alive while he was jumped at by two guards at once. Still, somewhere on the edge of his memory he remembered getting out and seeing Napoleon fall unconscious. 

Illya tried to study his body, deciphering if he had any injuries but then again, he could’ve suffered internal damage that was harder to bandage. From the looks of it, Napoleon’s face stayed mostly intact with only minor scratches breaking the smooth surface. He slept peacefully, as much as a tired and beaten agent could be peaceful. 

Solo must’ve heard his name being called since he started stirring.

“Illya?” 

“Yes, it’s me,” Illya kept his voice even and calm, maybe even gentle. 

Napoleon tried to sit up but quickly winched and grabbed his head, prompting Illya to help him lean back on the headrest. 

“Where are we? I don’t seem to remember being brought here”

“You blacked out”

“Apparently meeting a wall does that to a person,” he breathed out tiredly, trying to smile. “Gaby?”

“Don’t know,” Illya shook his head. 

Napoleon nodded - catching himself wincing at the last moment - and shifted his gaze onto Illya’s bandaged leg.

“Sorry for getting you shot. It wasn’t my intention. Believe it or not, I did try to distract Martin, but he was ready.”

Illya exhaled quietly through his nose, smiling with one corner of his lips. “It does hurt. But you are forgiven”

Solo kept smiling, as he turned to him, but as soon as their eyes met in the half-darkness of the room, the grins on their faces started to fade away.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” confessed Solo, voice barely audible. 

“Me too. About you, I mean”

Solo licked his lips, slightly frowning. “Did I dream that or did you call me Napoleon earlier?”

“I did,” swallowed Kuryakin. Then, after a moment’s consideration “And you called me Illya” 

“I did,” mirrored Napoleon. 

First-term basis was something they rarely delved into, only in the times of great distress or danger, and even in those cases Illya preferred to call Napoleon by his last name to save time. But they weren’t in a dangerous situation now. And yet, speaking each other’s names felt right, as they sat next to each other in the dim barely-lit room on the king-sized bed in Waverly’s baroque safe house. 

They were in the dark, yet they felt free. It was hypocritical yet comforting of darkness to cover their eyes but show the true faces.

Illya felt exposed, in the best possible way, and he was looking at the equally naked – yet fully dress-up – man. He felt exposed and raw, feeling like he could confess his every sin of being attracted to Napoleon Solo and not only would he not be ridiculed but he would actively be reciprocated. 

It was a dangerous situation, after all, just not to his life, but to his heart. 

_Stop looking at him._

He continued drowning in Napoleon’s eyes, unusually dark given the circumstances. 

_Don’t give in._

Illya shifted closer, a chill going up his arms, and barely registered pain in his thigh.

_It is a trap._

He placed his palm on Solo’s cheek, entranced and entrancing. Napoleon’s eyes lowered to his lips. 

It could be a trap.

Illya breathed in through his nose, slightly parting his lips. 

Even if it is a trap, an act, pretence, false, a lie, he couldn’t stand being away from Napoleon anymore.

He pressed his lips, freezing for just a moment, giving Solo the freedom to resist and to refuse. Napoleon neither moved closer nor pushed him away. Illya separated from him, leaning back just enough to look into Napoleon’s eyes, still open. 

A silent second passed – or, as Illya thought and felt, an eternity – during which Napoleon licked his lips. The next second Solo pushed one of his arms into Illya’s hair, and used the other to bring another man closer by his neck, kissing him hard on the lips. He switched between long deep kisses and short pecks, leading at first and then giving in at any moment Illya showed his own initiative. They breathed in between although it felt like they didn’t breathe – or needed to breathe – at all. 

Napoleon pushed him onto his back, lying on top of him but then made a miscalculated attempt at straddling Illya and put too much pressure on his wounded leg. Illya inhaled as if being kicked, and Solo quickly sat up.

“Sorry… I’m– sorry,” he was ridiculously out of breath. 

The minor incident seemed to slow them down and give them time to think about what they were doing. 

Conflicting thoughts flooded Illya’s head, making him question every movement Napoleon made. He was angry at himself, for giving in, for showing his weakness, for the idea of getting hurt in the future. Napoleon would recollect himself and tell him to fuck off. Or worse, first use him just long enough to make him helplessly fall in love, and then tell him to fuck off. 

Illya looked at Napoleon, sitting next to him, feeling every second separate them further from each other than they were before. 

“I’ll go find Gaby,” said Solo, sounding detached. 

Illya was left alone on the bed, in the room and in his thoughts. 

***  
He must’ve fallen asleep because the next time he opened his eyes it was bright outside. Napoleon was nowhere to be seen, neither was anyone else. Illya attempted to stand up but he was quickly brought down to bed by immense pain in his leg. So, walking anywhere wasn’t an option yet. 

He was adjusting his pillow when Solo entered the room.

“Morning”

“Did you find Gaby?”

“No, but she did leave a message. Waverly took her to go after Nordström. Our Swedish friend managed to escape from the warehouse yesterday.”

“Chyort*,” hissed Illya.

“On the positive side, Helena Pierce is here, in the room nearby”

“Is she awake?”

“Yes,” he said, sitting down on the bed with his back towards Illya. 

“Well?” Prompted Kuryakin, getting a little exasperated as to why Napoleon was withholding the information. “What did she tell you?”

“It’s not what she told me but what she didn’t tell Martin.” He half-turned his head, continuing to look at the floor. “She didn’t tell him anything. He figured out that she was undercover but for the whole month she was relatively safe before we came in. In the meantime they perfected their facial recognition software, linked the databases. And then as soon as I put my face through the doors of Angrboda LLC, they knew exactly who I was, knew that I was working undercover as well. Their technology puts any agents at risk.”

“It puts anyone at risk. Governments and police will buy this technology for billions of dollars”

“We’re going to find him. And then we’re going to destroy their software.”

“It’s not as easy as you think”

“No. No one said it’s going to be easy,” dropped Napoleon, standing up to leave the room once again. 

***  
Waverly and Gaby returned around midday, both exhausted and distressed. 

“We’ve managed to capture eleven people who are working for him,” stated Waverly on their impromptu meeting. “The whereabouts of Martin Nordström himself, however, remain a mystery to us.”

“If I may, Commander, I would like to propose an idea”

“Go ahead, Solo”

“As I understand, he has control over the security cameras in Sweden, and, possibly, other countries already”

“From what we’ve gathered, yes”

“Is there a possibility that he can withhold information as much as retrieve it for himself?”

“What are you implying?”

“All I'm trying to say is, if we want to catch someone who has control over the surveillance systems, we probably shouldn’t use those systems ourselves and, instead, use more… old-fashioned methods”

“You mean following him? We don’t even know where he is. He could be anywhere in the world,” remarked Gaby.

“Not anywhere. I’m willing to bet my money that he hasn’t left Sweden. And he’s not going to”

“What makes you so sure?” Waverly narrowed his eyes.

“Currently he’s in one of the most, if not the most, neutral country in the world. Stepping his foot somewhere outside Scandinavia immediately makes him the problem of the respectful country. Given the technology he possesses, he’d rather deal with his potential buyers from afar”

“You said Scandinavia, and yet you claim he’s in Sweden”

“He’s right,” interfered Helena, who was a silent witness up until that moment. “Nordström has potential clients all over the world: the US, Russia, China, North Korea, you name it. And not only does he want to be on neutral territory, he wants to be in Sweden, his home-country, a place where he’s most secure and bound to. He’d never leave it”

“But how do we find him?” asked Illya.

“I suggest we start in his apartment”

“He wouldn’t be so dumb to go into his own house when there’re an armed brigade looking for him,” scoffed Gaby.

“No, but we won’t be looking for him there. He needs somewhere to go, a safe house, just as we do. Considering his patriotic nature, it’s probably going to somewhere in rural Sweden, and we need to find where”

Waverly nodded. “Sounds like the beginning of a plan. Solo, Teller, you go ahead with that. Agents Pierce and Kuryakin, you are dismissed until you are fit to get back into the field. Good luck”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ___________  
> *Chyort (Russian) means “damn; imp; devil”. It’s a curse word, though not as harsh.


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third-person POV from Napoleon's perspective.

_Stockholm. Östermalm. Morning._

Martin Nordström’s flat was located on the fourth floor of the elite residential house in a posh area of Östermalm, northeast Stockholm. Most buildings in that region were from a different era, eaves and stucco moulding more widespread. A light sand-coloured building stood in between two terracotta-red, pavement in front of them dotted with trees and bushes. 

Gaby remained in their Saab behind the street corner on the lookout while Napoleon, dressed as the cleaning person, entered the apartment complex. Going past the security, finding the flat and picking the lock was easy, too easy. There was a possibility he was being watched by Martin or someone else through the security cameras, though he decided to concentrate on the more pressing matters at hand. 

Now, if Napoleon was a sociopathic Swedish programmer who wanted to own the whole world, where would he go in the times of distress? Or, at least, where would he keep his escape plans?

The apartment was in pristine condition, not a hair – or a chair – out of place. It was properly cared for, there were no signs of dust… or even living, to be fair. Should the stucco moulding on the ceiling be removed, it would feel more like a simulated apartment that you model on the computer while trying to figure out how to fit new furniture in there. 

Bedroom, living room, bathroom and kitchen all had that sterile feeling to them, so when Napoleon opened the next door in the hallway he was taken aback by the sheer chaos in it. It was an office, currently profusely covered with papers and furniture shifted around in unnatural positions. Whoever was in here had a hard time searching for whatever they were searching for. 

Upon taking a few steps into the office it became obvious that the search wasn’t as chaotic as it first seemed. There was an impressive library wall to his left - floor to ceiling shelves - and not a book was taken out, meaning that the person knew what those shelves contained. Meaning that this person was probably the owner himself. 

Napoleon felt a sting from the feeling he hated most – being just a little bit late. He knew that Martin was here, recently. He could almost smell his cologne in the air and feel the aura of distress that Nordström inflicted. 

The papers on the floor were mostly meaningless to Napoleon, either too heavy on mathematics or programming. Illya would have had better luck deciphering the codes, but unfortunately he wasn’t here. Napoleon ignored the painful jab in his heart at the thought of Illya and kept looking through papers. 

Merely by sheer luck he picked a paper without thinking much of it to find out that it was a property contract for the building in Smögen, Sotenäs Municipality, Västra Götaland County in Sweden, according to the document. Solo quickly snapped a photo of the contract and sent it to Waverly. 

“I believe we have our address,” notified him Waverly on the call where Solo returned back to the car. 

***

_On route from Stockholm to Gothenburg. Three days later._

In the last few days Napoleon learned a few things.

Number one: Smögen was a small town near Gothenburg on the west coast of Sweden – opposite from Stockholm on the east. 

Number two: U.N.C.L.E. can provide a family van type vehicle way too quickly for a secret service – they had to travel by car to not get caught on any security cameras in the airports or railway stations. 

Number three: Illya was a surprisingly fast healer – filled with meds and painkillers he was ready to get back into action.

Number four: driving for hours next to someone you desperately wanted to touch and to kiss but couldn’t even look at and who refused to look at you in return was excruciating.

“Agents Solo and Kuryakin, tonight you will be our Trojan horse,” explained Waverly from his front seat near agent Jones who was behind the wheel. “You two will enter the house and presumably find Martin Nordström there. Agent Teller, you shall be monitoring our bright gentlemen from afar through visual means and an ear-set. I believe your team already has a collection of code-words that you can efficiently use.”

Three heads nodded.

“Brilliant. Our main strike force is two armed brigades that shall be located to the left and to the right from the house,” he pointed on the map he was holding. “Agent Teller, I’m giving you the responsibility to decide when to send the said brigades, according to the situation. We don’t want our agents getting hurt but we would also like to extract the biggest amount of information”

“Understood”

“And please, try not to get shot. Especially you, Kuryakin”

Illya frowned as Napoleon and Gaby tried to quiet their laughs. “That wasn’t my fault!”

“Illya is right,” interfered Napoleon, still smiling. “I provoked Martin the last time. Won’t happen again”

“Well, I certainly hope so. We don’t want to lose our special agent, don’t we?”

“No, we don’t,” agreed Napoleon, absentmindedly. No, he doesn’t.

***

 _Smögen. Temporary base. T-minus 1 hour._

Night air was chill and filled Napoleon with dread from the soon occurring mission. He didn’t like being the bait. And he certainly disliked Martin Nordström. Still, the job had to be done, and he wasn’t about to back out.

He inhaled the cold air, slowly exhaling it, trying to put his thoughts in order and going over the plan. Illya and he will go to Nordström’s house at midnight, an armed brigade following them, ready to barge in when Gaby gives them a signal. It sounded simple, however, they had no idea what waited for them in the house. Would Martin be waiting for them? Would there be more armed guards? Did they have any chance at a stealthy attack? 

The door to the back porch Napoleon was standing on slided open and out emerged Illya. 

“Cowboy”

“Peril”

They stood in silence for a few moments. Illya was wearing the same black combat gear that Napoleon did, minus the beret that Solo preferred to have. 

“You ready?”

“I’m not sure, to be frank”

“That’s new,” dropped Illya, smiling with one corner of his mouth. 

Napoleon studied his face and, assessing that they were alone right now, dared to delve into a different territory.

“Illya, about what happened in Stockholm…”

Kuryakin tensed and averted his gaze but remained silent.

“About the kiss”

“There’s nothing to discuss”

“I’m sorry if I misread the situation,” pressed Napoleon. He wanted to try a different approach, persuading Illya that what he did was truthful but first he had to make sure they were on the same page. “I’m sorry if you didn’t want to kiss me”

Illya stared at him, brows furrowed. “I kissed you first”

“Still”

They looked intensely into each other’s eyes, trying to decipher which one of them was lying.

“What do you want, Solo?”

Napoleon ran through the options in his head. _I want to prove that I’m not lying. I want you to see that you can trust me. I want you to know that I would kill for you. Or die for you._ Instead, he opted for a more succinct and in hindsight the most truthful option. “You”

“Don’t,” Illya sounded strained.

“Illya…”

“I said don’t,” cut him off Kuriakin and turned towards the door to get back into the house.

Napoleon had to say something to make him stay. Now or never.

“I was jealous of you and Erik”

“What?” Illya turned his head. He stopped, so that was his first win.

“When I saw you dancing together in the club I wanted to be in his place”

Illya balled his fists and turned away, not meeting his gaze. He didn’t leave, though.

“I don’t know what to say for you to trust me. But I want you to know… I’ve always told you the truth. In Stockholm. In New York. Everywhere”

Illya stood there, contemplating. After a few seconds he stormed up to Napoleon, a hard stare in his eyes.

“I’m giving you one chance, Solo”

Napoleon smiled, openly, relieved. “That’s all I need”

The door slided once again, Waverly peeking out. 

“Gentlemen. It’s go time”

***

The armed squads were already in position, in between the building not so far from their target house. Illya and Napoleon crept alongside the shadowy side of the street, quickly moving from house to house. Nordström’s estate – a small red one-story house with white panels – was located on a peninsula-like field near the bay, separated from other houses in the area. The open space in front of the house was unfortunate, the agents had to cross a well-lit driveway to get to the door but they weren’t stopped. In fact, the windows were dark and silent.

As soon as they got to the front door, Napoleon fished his lock-picking set from the pocket and got to opening the lock due to the lack of the back door they could've slipped through. 

The door creaked open, revealing the dark insides of the house. Napoleon and Illya exchanged looks, hesitantly stepping in.

The door was immediately shut behind them by someone else.

Two guns clicked, by the sound of it next to both Napoleon and Illya.

In front of them a floor lamp was turned on by – as they quickly realised – Martin Nordström who sat in the chair.

“God kväll, kära herrar,*” said Martin. “I wish I could say it’s nice to see you but it’s not.” 

There were no other guards, except the two that held Napoleon and Illya at the gunpoint. 

“Damn,” jokingly cursed Napoleon, smiling. “I really thought we would get you by surprise.”

“Did you, now? That’s unfortunate. And I thought U.N.C.L.E. agents were smarter,” he stood from the armchair and crossed hands behind his back. “I want to speak with Alexander Waverly.”

“You can speak with us”

Martin shot him a quick and not so friendly smile and nodded to the guard behind Solo’s back. A moment later a kick to the back of his knees brought Napoleon on the floor. “Waverly,” he repeated, coming a couple of steps closer – but still being out of reach from the close combat attack. “And don’t try to call for your friends with guns. You’d see that this would be a bad idea.”

Napoleon shot a quick glance to a still standing Kuryakin. They could potentially attack the guards and then take down Nordström but the tone of his voice said that it would be a fruitless affair and even the brigades wouldn’t stop him.

“Gaby, do you hear me?”

“Yes,” responded Teller in his earpiece.

“Bring Waverly to the microphone”

“Are you sure? I could send–”

“No. Waverly,” he pressed. “Please”

After a second of shuffling on the other end he heard his commander’s voice.

“Solo?”

“Martin Nordström wants to speak to you”

“By all means, let him speak them”

Napoleon nodded, looking at Martin.

“Hello, Alexander. I must congratulate you, you’ve found me. Unfortunately, our meeting would be short-lived,” he started pacing back and forth. “You see, over the past few days I’ve been collecting very interesting information about a certain United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. Information that isn’t public knowledge, of course. And I believe that you, Alexander, as well as your colleagues want it to stay that way.”

“Sure,” said Waverly in his earpiece, and Napoleon repeated. 

“This is why I have a proposition for you. The information remains private, all names, contacts, addresses and missions included. In return, you never send any other agents after me. You and I go our separate ways in peace.”

“Solo, don’t say this out loud, just listen to me. We cannot let Nordström escape again. The deal that he’s proposing leaves him with an upper hand. Figure it out however you want but don’t let him go.”

“Understood,” said Napoleon to Waverly and then, addressing Martin: “He says he wants proof”

“Of course,” Martin turned towards the bookshelf, which gave Illya and Napoleon precious seconds to hit the guards and kick the weapons out of their hands. Solo elbowed the guard behind him into the groin, quickly seizing the gun and shooting the man. In the meantime Illya dealt with his guard.

When they looked at Martin they were met with another gun pointed at them. 

“Why do you have to make him difficult for yourself?”

Before Nordström could do anything, Napoleon acted fast, even faster than he could think about his actions. He rapidly raised the gun and the next thing he remembered the shot rang in his ears.

Bullet went right into Nordström’s head and a second later his body was on the floor. 

The two agents stood in silence for a moment, processing what had happened.   
“I guess that makes us even,” said Napoleon and then answered Illya’s questioning look: “He shot you, I shot him. Seems fair to me.”

Unexpectedly, Kuryakin laughed, mostly from the weirdness of the situation. Napoleon smiled as well.

“Martin Nordström is down,” reported Solo to whoever was listening. 

***

“Good job, agents,” congratulated them Waverly when they emerged from the house. “Though next time I would prefer you discuss our target’s demise beforehand. Thankfully, he didn’t tie the release of the confidential information to his life… or death. But you never know,” smiled Waverly. 

“I’ll try to remember next time,” smirked Napoleon, as Illya sat on the curb, hanging his head low. 

“Are you okay?” asked Solo when Waverly left.

“Yeah…” he exhaled. “Didn’t expect you to shoot it, that’s all”

“I’m… sorry?” questioned Napoleon, not even sure what he was sorry for. 

“No, you were right. He would’ve shot us, he was ready.” 

Napoleon silently nodded. He still lingered near Illya, unsure whether to stay or go join the other agents, and eventually decided to step closer to Kuryakin and place a hand on his shoulder. 

“Can we go on a date now?” asked Napoleon when Illya looked up at him.

The other agent looked shocked for a second but then his stare softened. “Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _______  
> *”God kväll, kära herrar” (Swedish) – “Good evening, dear gentlemen”


	8. VIII - Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third-person POV from Illya's perspective.

It was a hard decision to trust Napoleon. He could be lying. He could be using him. He could be toying with him. 

But something, _something_ inclined him to give Solo a chance. 

Maybe it was the way Napoleon admitted being jealous. 

Maybe it was their kiss. 

Maybe it was Illya’s desire to fall into Solo’s arms, trap or not. 

Either way, here he was, sitting on the curb outside the house they just risked their lives in. 

“Can we go on a date now?”

A short question with multiple implications. Do you trust me? Do you want me? Will you kiss me?

“Sure”

***

_South Stockholm. Gay bar “Side track”. The next day._

The bar was full of people, once again naked and beautiful, painted with makeup and wearing daring colourful clothes. 

Napoleon was leading him by the hand right into the centre of the crowd on the dancefloor to join the mass of moving and grinding people. He guessed that the excuse that he didn’t dance didn’t work anymore after Solo saw him go all out at the exact same club before. 

When they ended up in the middle, Napoleon started swaying with the music, now holding both Illya’s hands in his. Illya absentmindedly moved from side to side, mainly focused on his partner. Partner… not a work partner, just a partner. A lover? 

The thought made Illya smile. 

“What?” mouthed Napoleon, not even trying to speak louder than the electro-beat. 

Instead of answering Illya freed his hands and put them onto Napoleon’s waist, bringing him closer. 

Solo grinned even harder. 

They danced to the song, probably slightly slower that the beat required and then, when there was a pause in between the songs, Kuryakin asked “May I kiss you?”

“Any time you want, Peril”

He tried to convince himself that he was kissing Napoleon to wipe that smug look off his face but after a good ten seconds of quick pecks he stopped lying to himself. He wanted to kiss Napoleon and this is what he did. 

This time at the club Illya opted for wearing a more usual attire, black pants and grey sweater, leaving the brown jacket at home at the advice from Solo and it made him feel more like himself, finally. Napoleon, on the other hand, chose to shine by wearing white trousers that he definitely stole from Illya and a lilac shirt he bought recently. He tried to convince Illya to put on makeup once again but he wasn’t there yet mentally. 

They didn’t spend much time at the club. Soon after Illya realised that he wanted to delve into more intimate affairs and Napoleon wholeheartedly supported this idea.

U.N.C.L.E. kindly sponsored their vacation in Stockholm after their successful mission and they ended up in the luxury hotel with all-inclusive meals and a ginormous bed in the room. 

Tonight they decided to try the obnoxiously large jacuzzi in their bathroom. Napoleon switched off the lights after lighting the candles and Illya chose the music for the night. 

Hot water with bubbles and scented with some essential oils felt great on his skin. Napoleon’s kisses felt great on his skin as well. 

“Come here,” Illya tugged him on the shoulder to put Napoleon onto his lap.

‘No, wait. Your leg,” Solo glanced down and carefully touched the injured skin under water. “I don’t want to hurt you.” The last sentence hung in the air like a confession. 

“Okay,” Illya breathed out and straddled Napoleon instead. “If you don’t mind.”

“I certainly don’t,” he said, wrapping his arms around Illya’s torso. 

In the meantime Illya pushed his fingers into Napoleon’s hair, massaging his scalp and occasionally leaving kisses on his temples and cheeks. He wanted to be gentle and not to rush. If they were to be honest and do this properly, they should take it slow. Illya had the feeling that they would try quick and passionate sex later, when the opportunity and conditions would call for it but now they weren’t in a hurry. 

“May I?” asked Napoleon, sliding his hand down Illya’s stomach, clearly going for his groin. 

He nodded, slightly bracing himself on Solo’s shoulders. 

Napoleon’s hand was also gentle, going for a few trying strokes before squeezing just a tiny bit harder. Illya put his own hand on top of his and encouraged him to be more rough. Solo quickly got the idea and tugged on the foreskin harder in the next few strokes. He used his free hand to pull Illya down, closer to him and pressed their lips together, continuing to jack him off. 

Illya didn’t last long with all the stimulation, breaking the kiss just to get the chance to breath out. Then he kissed Napoleon again, with passion and much more tongue action involved. 

***

As he later lay down in bed next to Napoleon, both absolutely out of breath after another round of mutual masturbation, he caught himself thinking that maybe, possibly, he was getting close to the feeling he might’ve never experienced before. 

_Illya was happy._

His partner, work partner and now relationship partner, dealt with the same things he did: risking his life, living in secret and solving world crisis once in a while. They were both married to their job, never being able to imagine their lives without it. Despite their certain differences, they were very similar.

The freedom to rely on your partner so fully had never occurred in Illya’s experience. It was weird. But he was inclined to think that he could get used to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of this work. Thank you for reading!   
> Feel free to leave your opinion in the comments.


End file.
